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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23043373">Sweet Father, Dread Father</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/caermit67/pseuds/caermit67'>caermit67</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Trans Male Character, explicit descriptions of murder, hok is trans and broke, lucien lachance is a sugar daddy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 15:47:36</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,819</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23043373</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/caermit67/pseuds/caermit67</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Lucien Lachance finds his prospective new silencer in the oddest of places (a modern retelling).</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Hero of Kvatch | Champion of Cyrodiil/Lucien Lachance, Lucien Lachance/Silencer</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>41</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1: Glitterbug Pink</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Rawling’s LC249 Lil Slugger, Glitterbug Pink. Rawling’s LC249 Lil Slugger, Firetruck Red. Rawling’s LC249 Lil Slugger, T-Rex Green. Rawling’s LC249 Lil Slugger, Kool Kidz Blue. Rawling’s BC433 BAMBOO (lightweight). </p><p>Hok frowns at the misplaced shipping box on his trolley - he’d just finished unloading the new adult Rawling’s bats. He must have grabbed from the wrong pile when loading up the trolley. </p><p>He moves at a sluggish pace to the next rack of merchandise, ears buzzing with static as the flow he’d built up shelving slips through his fingers like sand. The sun isn’t even up - 5:45am in Liverpool January is dark, cold and upsettingly wet. </p><p>He’s wearing 2 pairs of wool socks and it’s still not enough to shake the chill of morning dew settling over the city. Promising himself a second cup of coffee once the store’s ready for it’s 6am open, he resolutely continues the mindless process of color-sorting children’s sporting equipment. </p><p>His muddled focus drifts in and out, and despite his best efforts he finds his eyes drifting anxiously to the large bay windows and out into the parking lot. If there were something evenly minorly worth his attention he might be able to ignore the impulse, but as it was, his mind drifted to the black van and it’s shadowed occupants against his will again. </p><p>Hok forces himself to look away before he’s caught staring. “Probably nothing,” he mutters to no one, a bit hysterically, but his gut twists with uncertainty as if in response. </p><p>Not more than a minute later he’s nearly sent into cardiac arrest by the sudden opening of the store’s front doors, his heart only returning to a semi-functional pace when he spots yellow ears peeking up over the rows of shelving. “J’Ghasta,” he calls out to get the Khajiit’s attention, stepping out from deep in the kid’s aisle, and is rewarded with a decidedly feminine noise of shock.</p><p>Hok stares blankly at the bruised and bloodied blonde girl with an arm slung over the burly Khajiit’s shoulder, staring back like a deer caught in headlights. J’Ghasta himself is as unreadable as ever, adjusting his grip on the breton girl and nodding towards his employee, “Morning.” </p><p>In a belated gesture of politeness, Hok dazedly waves at the stranger, “Morning.” </p><p>She does not make an attempt to respond, beyond a vague wince of pain. Her right eye is nearly swollen entirely shut, a bruise spreading down the side of her nose. Her neck and chin are splattered with blood, and she’s definitely only standing with the help of Hok’s feline boss. </p><p>Hok glances towards the early morning outside and then back at her, still paralyzed at the other end of the aisle. “Shit weather out there still?” </p><p>The question seems to take her aback. “Oh, not really,” she comments, sounding apologetic, “it’s stopped raining now.” </p><p>Hok nods, “That’s good. Hopefully it’ll keep until my break. I hate smoking in the rain.” </p><p>She nods agreeably, and J’Ghasta locks eyes with Hok as if saying something wordlessly that Hok could only interpret from context clues as “Mind your damn business.” The pair hobble out of sight, and he hears the back room door opening. </p><p>A second or so of analyzing what had just transpired later, the only thing bit of information that Hok’s sleep deprived brain decides to cling to is that the blood splatter across the girl’s collarbone was more consistent with being sprayed with someone else’s blood than having come from any of her own injuries. </p><p>And that she hadn’t looked afraid. She’d looked… ready. </p><p>Hok wishes he could say this was the first time J’Ghasta had brought someone like… well, like that into the store. </p><p>It wasn’t Hok’s place to comment - the old Khajiit owned the damn sporting supply store, he could harbor whoever the hell he wanted to in it’s sparse breakroom. Hok probably wasn’t paid well enough for the kind of blind eye he’d taken to turning on J’Ghasta’s affairs, or at least not paid well enough to deal with the foul smelling punching bag the old cat pounded away at near constantly in the basement. </p><p>But hell, the old cat had never given him shit about his mismatching ID or his pathetic lifestyle, and he let him take regular smoke breaks. He never argued over sick days, or mental health days, and he’d even given Hok a ride home once or twice when it was truly pouring. </p><p>Hok’s loyalty wasn’t too hard to win. If the old cat had some secret, criminal life outside of beating the ever loving crap out of a swinging target and watching Hok make his microwaved dinner before locking up at 6, well, it couldn’t be that bad. </p><p>Hok turns back to his work. Rawling’s LC249 Lil Slugger, Glitterbug Pink. Rawling’s LC249 Lil Slugger, Firetruck Red</p><p>How long had he been working this job now? Mindless 10 hour workdays, 5 days a week. Divines, it would be a year now in February. Time passed so quickly, when you ran from your problems. </p><p>Rawling’s LC249 Lil Slugger, T-Rex Green. Rawling’s LC249 Lil Slugger, Kool Kidz Blue.</p><p>Mind drifting again, he instinctively glanced out the bay windows again. Then he did a double take, and his shoulder’s ratcheted up to his ears. </p><p>The shadowy figures had gotten out of the black van. And they were headed directly for the store. </p><p>A couple things were notable about them. There were three figures, two men and a woman. They were wearing hoods, balaclavas, and all black and orange. They had guns. They were less than 30 seconds from walking through the front door. </p><p>Hok skittered for the back room in a state of sheer panic, and then, in a brief moment of impulse, slipped out of view and into a rack of snowsuits just as the bell above the door rang for the second time that morning. He held his breath completely, not daring to make even the slightest of minute movements. </p><p>“Back door’s open, c’mon,” One of the men said, and Hok could only stand there and hope that the deafening sound of his own heartbeat in his ears was not as audible to them as it was inside his hysterical brain. </p><p>Footsteps pass by his hiding space, but a female voice stops at the door, “Stay behind in case one of them makes a break for it.” </p><p>Hok hears a grunt of approval, and two pairs of footsteps recede to the backroom, then down the staircase to J’Ghasta’s basement. After a painfully silent second, the terrifying sound of heavy bootfalls move past the display and towards the other end of the store, idling somewhere near the front door. </p><p>Hok tightens his grip on Rawling’s LC249 Lil Slugger, Glitterbug Pink, and steps out from the snowsuit rack. </p><p>-</p><p>“You sleep rather soundly for a murderer.” </p><p>Hok freezes in place, carefully opening his eyes and adjusting to sudden consciousness. Conducting a quick personal inventory, Hok tries not to be too alarmed. Limbs - all still in place. Location - still the couch in the backroom that remains one of the most comfortable pieces of furniture he’s ever experienced (despite the fact that it was probably at least a decade his senior). </p><p>Stranger who just called him a murderer in an amused tone - a stranger. </p><p>Hok’s eyes adjust to the light. </p><p>The stranger is so handsome it comes as a shock. An imperial man, tall, willowy with a strong stature and bone structure. His skin is a golden brown, caramel, and his slick black hair is pulled back into a low ponytail. He’s graying, at the temples. His eyes are a disarming quality of black. </p><p>Hok is not so proud as to deny himself as speechless. “What… I don’t…” </p><p>The dark stranger watches patiently and deadly still in his well tailored blazer. Hok’s quickly awakening brain expands to absorb more of this new guest, the black turtleneck that covers a long, elegant neck. Crisp black dress pants that taper at his legs, high black socks and expensive looking black dress shoes. Hok swallows, sorting the information in his brain with some effort. </p><p>“One of the guys died then?” He assumes, rubbing his face with a hand as if to scrub the fog from behind his eyes. </p><p>The stranger nods, lips curling into a smile, his voice deeper than it had any right to be, “Yes, the man you subdued with violence has passed from the head injury. He suffered a painful seizure and perished as a result.” </p><p>Hok eyes him wearily, but despite the brutal description, there is no weight of judgment behind the words in the slightest. The stranger is unreadable, a charismatic smile and something lethal flickering in his eyes. </p><p>Hok nods, “Alright then.” He’s not sure what else to say. He’s not guilty - the thugs were probably there to kill that poor breton woman, and he’d acted in self defense. He’s sure a death on his conscience should feel like - well, like something. Maybe it’s the shock.</p><p>After a beat, Hok breaks the oddly comfortable silence. “Are you a, uh, friend of J’Ghasta? And the breton girl?” </p><p>The stranger’s eyes twinkle, and he opens his mouth as if to say, “ah.” He nods, “I am Lucien Lachance. J’Ghasta told me of the vital role you had to his and Ms. Marie’s survival, and I must thank you for that.”</p><p>Hok blinks, the praise making his cheeks feel fuzzy and his hands start fiddling with frayed holes of his jeans unconsciously. “I’m Hok - H O K, not the bird, and… and It’s no problem,” he says, “It’s not like I had much choice.” </p><p>Lachance raises a brow pointedly, “There’s no need to be modest. The open door was right there.” </p><p>“I needed to get rid of the guy on the first floor anyways, and then once he was down I had a gun,” Hok explains, “I had an advantage. Your friends, they took care of the other two once I was down there.” </p><p>They’d taken advantage of the situation alright. The second the woman had turned her back to the breton she was dead with a knife in her back. J’Ghasta knocked the gun out of the man’s hand with some martial arts move, and clocked him out with one to the jaw. Before Hok could bother say anything intimidating, they hit the floor like two sacks of potatoes. </p><p>Hok’s had been told to go wait in the breakroom, and he’d fallen asleep sitting up after an hour of sitting in complete silence. At some point he’d helped the blonde woman drag the unconscious body from upstairs down to the basement. She was obviously still very much injured.</p><p>“Is she - Ms. Marie, is she alright?” Hok asks.</p><p>Lucien smiled dismissively, “Antoinetta has survived much worse than a flesh wound.” </p><p>Lachances surprises him suddenly by taking the seat next to him on the couch, flattening down his pants with his hands - his nails are perfectly manicured, with a somewhat large scar rippling from the webbing between his ring and middle finger on the left hand. He’s wearing a few, tasteful rings, distracting in the way they seem to catch the eye from any angle. Hok finds himself without words, again, but Lachance seems in no hurry to speak, making himself effortlessly comfortable on the dirty couch. It’s an odd contrast. </p><p>Hok does not look away when Lucien fixes him with a stare. “How much do you know about the people that J’Ghasta allows refuge here?” </p><p>“Oh boy,” Hok thinks, “Please don’t break my kneecaps. Or maybe do, if you leave the rings on, and take the blazer off.” </p><p>“Not much,” the more rational and socially adept part of him actually responds, “I’ve seen some of them come and go, and they usually stay in the basement until someone comes to pick them up. I don’t say anything, cus they’re with J’Ghasta, and I’ve never asked.”</p><p>Lachance appraises him warmly, and Hok gets the feeling that he’s answered correctly. “That loyalty is admirable. I said as much to him before he left to escort Ms. Antoinetta back to the sanctuary - I am pleasantly surprised you were willing to kill for our mutual friend on such meager information.” </p><p>It’s the weirdest compliment he’s ever received, and it probably shouldn’t be making him blush, but he knows Lucien is equally as aware of the way his face goes red as he is himself. “Yeah, well. The old cat is a good boss. Protecting the store is kinda in my job description.” </p><p>“Of course,” Lachance purrs, “I’m sure every minimum wage drone would gladly violent murder. It’s the first line in the contract.” </p><p>Hok squirms and looks away, feeling ridiculous. “Mr. Lachance…” he finds himself at a loss for words, “Am I free to go?” at the tip of his tongue but he winces at the idea of being so rude to this handsome, friendly, possibly lethally dangerous stranger. </p><p>“Your etiquette is refreshing,” Lachance comments pleasantly, “And you’re not fumbling for excuses. That’s good. You’ll need a clear conscience for what I’m about to propose.”</p><p>Hok says nothing to that, just holds the man's gaze and listens. Lachance waits a long moment, and then smiles with a flash of white teeth, “You prefer silence then, I do too. Is silence not the symphony of death, the orchestration of Sithis himself? It’s Ironic, that I’m here as a Speaker of the Black Hand.” </p><p>Lachance crosses one leg over the other, and folds his hands in his lap. “Have you heard of the Black Hand?” Hok shakes his head, hyper awareness of the polish black shoe resting amicably against his thigh splitting his mind into two halves. Then, he backtracks, correcting himself with a nod. </p><p>“Isn’t that like… the Dark Brotherhood? That’s like, a conspiracy right? They still exist today and they’re called The Black Hand?”</p><p>Lachance does not look offended, though he tilts his head at Hok’s words and tuts, “Not quite the conspiracy. The Dark Brotherhood is an anciently deceased cult. I would hope you’d think better of us than the remorseless guild of paid assassins and homicidal cutthroats,” Lucien places a strong hand on Hok’s thigh, “We are all of that, and so much more.” </p><p>Hok looks between the stunningly handsome murderer and the hand on his thigh, then back again, shock a useful assistant in remaining calm and collected. “Okay,” he says, deciding to accept this without a fight, “The Black Hand. And you want to tell me something for them.” </p><p>Lucien smiles rewardingly and tightens the hand on Hok’s thigh, “I’m telling you something as them. I am the The Black Hand, one of it’s Speaker’s. And I would like you to do something for me.” </p><p>After a beat of dead silence, Lachance leans in conspicuously. “On green road in north Coventry, there is an... establishment. The Inn of Ill Omens. A regular patron there is a man named Rufio. Kill him, and if you are successful, return to your apartment and pack your belongings. I will find you, bearing the love of your new family.” </p><p>Lachance reaches into his suit jacket and carefully removes a long, slender dagger. It is sheathed in soft black leather, the hilt looking as though made of pure silver. Hok is distracted from answering as Lucien reaches for his hand and takes it in his own. </p><p>His fingers are calloused, strong and dexterous. Hok feels his cheeks burn, and in the privacy of his own brain he yells obscenities at his own red complexion.</p><p>He places the dagger in Hok’s hand, closing his palm over Hok’s into a fist. Hok’s chest is tight, and he looks deep into the handsome imperial’s face as he is smiled upon. “Please accept this token from the Dark Brotherhood of old,” Lachance murmurs in that dangerously delicious voice of his, “A virgin blade, they called it. It thirsts for blood. May it serve you well, as does your silence.” </p><p>Hok is silent for a long, extended moment, before finally he gives up on words entirely and nods noncommittally. His eyes drift away from the black pits staring back into him and to their entwined hands, watching with slight reverence. </p><p>Finally, Lucien stands from the couch and mimes to brush invisible wrinkles from his trousers. “I should be going now,” he looks back up and meets Hok’s eyes with a mischievous twinkle, “I hope we’ll meet again soon.” </p><p>Hok remains on the couch in a daze for an indeterminable amount of time after the bell above the door has stopped ringing and the handsome imperial is long gone. Eventually, he wills himself to stand and go about locking up - ignoring the three very dead bodies in the basement trussed up with flex tape as he flicks the lights.</p><p>When he finally checks his phone he recognizes distantly that it’s 9 in the morning - 3 hours had passed. It felt like far too much time and yet far too little. The bell chimes as he shuts the front door closed behind him, locking it for the day, sign flipped to “CLOSED”. </p><p>Waiting for the bus back to his hole-in-the-wall apartment, he rubs the leather of the sheath and the pads of his fingers catch on an imprint. Flipping over the sleek instrument he marvels at the small outline of a handprint on the pommel. After a moment of quiet awe, he stuffs the weapon into the oversized pockets of his raincoat and tugs it closer to his chest. </p><p>Head vibrating against the frosted window on the empty bus, Hok pulls up directions to Coventry on his phone.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2: Ashes and Adoration</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>wasn't planning on posting a second chapter but this one's for morimor. give me my fucking money.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“You most likely won’t be seeing Mr. Lachance again,” Ocheeva tells him, and Hok tries not to sound entirely heartbroken when he says, “Oh.” </p><p>--</p><p>Apologetic guards escort Hok out of the swiss prison in a trauma blanket, while Valen Dreth is escorted out on a stretcher, foaming at the mouth from an apparent drug overdose. The “No, no I’ll be fine calling a cab, thank you so much, Mara bless you,” slips from him on instinct, a defence against the onset of well-meaning policemen. </p><p>Hok knows he’d rather swim back through the sewers then endure a 30 minute drive with anyone right now, an all too real anxiety fueling his facade of the traumatized relative. He’s shaky, he’s feeling faint, he’s fucking scared.</p><p>It’s not that he feels guilty for Valen Dreth’s death, he’s felt guilty for none of the marks he’s killed. He knows he should, somewhere distantly, but it doesn’t seem all that important somehow. Valen Dreth was a mer who had been more than happy to meet and try to manipulate the “distant cousin in law” who’s “belief in Mara” had driven her to “attempt to help in his redemption back to the Nine’s good graces”, and that was his last mistake. Hok has real things to worry about. </p><p>Hok instead sits down on a bench and tugs his cardigan closer around himself, pulling his phone out of his pocket (a blackberry, his last phone was at the bottom of the Liverpool Bay). </p><p>His offshore account has $300 dollars in it, enough for a plane ticket, a meal and not much else. Ocheeva will send him his $500 for the kill and $500 for completing the bonus, not killing any prison guards, but the profit margin still isn’t looking great for him. </p><p>The lethal dose of skooma hadn’t been cheap either. Thanks to Antoinetta’s contacts he’d found a dealer who didn’t ask questions, but confidentiality comes at a cost.  </p><p>Eventually, he knows the money will start adding up, the more experience he has the more he’ll get paid. He’s building up his collection of disguises too, he can reuse some parts on future jobs. </p><p>But the money he doesn’t spend just goes into his surgery fund, and what happens if the payouts don’t increase? He’s no formal training in combat or weaponry, he’s still scared shitless every time he goes in for the kill, that moment when life or death is so unsure. He’s a shelving boy playing international assassin and the pressure of arrest hanging over his head had felt all the more real this time around. </p><p>He turned his phone off, deciding he would wipe off the fourteen layers of cakey makeup and eat first before he blew the last of his money getting back to Amsterdam. He’d had the measly hotel breakfast this morning while he shaved his face and got into costume. Bright purple lip, heavy eyeshadow, blonde wig, padded bra, big sunglasses, skinny jeans, audacious southern accent, amulet of mara. </p><p>The ambulance with Dreth’s corpse had long peeled out, but the street outside the prison was still sprinkled with cop cars, reminding Hok that he should probably be leaving sooner rather than later. The black sports car that pulled up to idle outside the visitor drop off area caught his eye, only for how long it lingered without a passenger getting out. </p><p>The phone in Hok’s hand buzzed. Hok glanced down to read the message from an unsaved number.</p><p>“Get in the car.”</p><p>Hok twitches his eyes back to the black tinted windows, but he can’t even make out the shadow of man nor mer inside. Clutching his purse closer to himself, he neatly folds the trauma blanket over the back of the bench and walks hurriedly towards the vehicle like a child running from the hallway after turning out the lights. His heart pounds in his ears, but his face is a mask of confidence and he keeps his shoulders squared. </p><p>The passenger side door opens for him, sliding up with a mechanical hiss. From the shadows, a ringed hand beckons him inside. </p><p>Lucien Lachance is wearing a black suit and dress shirt, more than a couple buttons undone at the neck, exposing quite a bit of golden brown skin. His hair is tied back as always, eyes hooded in silent amusement as Hok takes him in, completely baffled. </p><p>After a second of surprise, Hok eagerly gets into the passenger seat and tucks his purse between his knees, mechanical door sliding shut behind him. Lucien is still smiling at him when he turns to look again and it’s a conscious effort not to avoid his burning gaze from some primal survival instinct. </p><p>“Thanks,” his voice warbles on the edge of the accent he’d been wearing all day, “Do you mind if I take my makeup off right now? I feel like I’m drowning in bronzor. I promise I won’t litter.”</p><p>Lucien doesn’t look half as surprised as Hok feels. If anything, Lucien’s smile only grows. “By all means,” he drawls, and Hok suppresses the urge to shiver at the sound of his low timbre, “I’m sure you’ve had quite the day.”</p><p>“Oh no, I wouldn’t say that,” Hok deflects, lifting the edges of his wig and ruffling his hair from clinging to his head. “It wasn’t all that much of a hassle when everything was said and done. Job went well enough.”</p><p>“I was under the impression your schedule was to be at the airport three hours ago,” Lucien comments, sounding smug.</p><p>Hok shakes his head, not really in the mood to think too hard about how Lachance could have known that, “I got a refund for my ticket this morning when I found out how long the waitlist was for security screening. I was standing around for seven hours, my own mistake.” </p><p>“How unfortunate,” Lucien simpers somewhat unkindly, and Hok shrugs it off. Bastard like Lachance probably got off on misery and misfortune. He reaches into his purse and pulls the expensive makeup remover wipes he’d swiped from a pharmacy and starts with the highly pigmented lipstick, knowing it would just smudge into the rest of his face anyways. </p><p>The car begins to move so smoothly that Hok almost doesn’t feel it, aside from a small pull in his gut. Lucien’s eyes are back on the road, but when he glances up he catches Hok’s through the rearview mirror and Hok can’t help but duck down again and feel his face go red. He used to think blushing was a predominantly fictional phenomenon, until he met Lucien Lachance. </p><p>“Do you want to know where I am taking you?” Lucien asks offhandedly, effortlessly turning on a dime and speeding up without even so much as a rumble from the silent engine. </p><p>Hok shrugs, wiping the contour from his cheek around to his chin. “It doesn’t really matter if I’m going to say yes anyways,” he replies, “I try not to get curious.” </p><p>“A healthy curiosity is important to any successful murderer,” Lucien chides in that strange tone, not angry or disappointed, almost approving. “You’ve already developed quite the creative style, child. I hadn’t expected it from you.” </p><p>Hok looks over at Lucien, free to explore his face now that the imperial’s eyes are on the road. After a moment, he reaches down to get another wipe and sighs, defeated. “Alright. Where are you taking me?” </p><p>“Loyal even against your own nature,” Lucien notes, “Very good. I am taking you to the airport. I’ve chartered a private jet back to Amsterdam, for the two of us.” </p><p>Hok blinks, mind stuttering as it tries to process this information. “I had chauffeurs collect your belongings from your hotel room,” Lucien throws in, as if the thought of his one backpack of travel supplies was jamming the circuits in his brain and not the instant spike of heat between his legs when Lachance had called him “good”. </p><p>His brain helpfully offers to him that he has an extra $250 dollars now, and relief hits him like a truck. “Oh,” he says in a strained voice, “That’s awesome. That’s- wow. Thank you so much.” </p><p>Lucien does not reply, aside from a self-satisfied smile - Hok was beginning to get the impression that Lachance reveled in catching him off guard and flustering him. He peels the lashes from his face and rests them on his knee, scrubbing off his smokey eye. Relief blooms in his chest, very suddenly and quietly.  </p><p>He looks in the mirror and sees himself red, scrubbed and raw, his eyes bright and naive looking without the heavy lashes and his hair mussed and sweaty. He thinks of what Lucien might see when looking at him, and clenches his thighs a little tighter. This is a terrible time for this, and he’s a terrible person. </p><p>
  <i> Lucien probably likes me terrible,<i> he thinks, and looks up at the imperial again. He definitely understands why the others at the sanctuary talk about Lachance with such… reverence.</i></i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>The ride to the airport is comfortably silent, Hok relaxes easily into the ergonomic and exorbitantly expensive passenger seat. There is a tranquility, in this moment, that Hok takes a rare moment to ponder. He’s not sure why, but in this car, less than an hour after leaving a complete stranger gasping for air as he choked on his own bile, he feels like… he feels… </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Well. It’s very nice. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>--</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Hok slips out of Faelian’s hotel room flushed and sweaty from exertion. The maid who catches his eye gives him a once over and looks pointedly away. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Considering he’s dressed like a six-cent call boy coming out of a notorious “daddy’s money” skooma addict’s hotel room, this is an intentional outcome. He smiles at her ruefully, giving a half-hearted “bonsoir,” in his best attempt at french, and tugs his trashy fur coat a little tighter around himself as he makes his way down the carpeted halls. The heels of his knee-high boots are muffled by the muted paisley and maroon embroidery of the Tiber Septim Hotel. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>In the morning, they’ll find Faelian’s cold corpse slumped over in his drained hot tub, skooma bottles, pillows and used condoms cushioning the ceramic floor. The nameless sex worker who’d seen him before his inevitable OD will be impossible to find- Hok’s pulled out all the costume stops. Bright, distracting wig, colored contacts, heavy contour, platformed boots to make him taller. When your disguise is already an audacious character, it’s easier to make the new features stand out. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>The lobby of the Tiber Septim hotel doesn’t sleep - gimmick hotels like these attract all kinds. Businessmen with their mistresses, harried parents corralling their travel-cranky children, a few other women dressed in similar uniforms to Hok’s own. The sliding glass doors whoosh open and let in the cool Paris air in (and a bellboy carrying twice his weight in suitcases). </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Hok’s plan to quick change in an alley and cab back to the airport is thrown out the window when a glimpse of a tall imperial man out of the corner of his eye nearly has him tripping over his own heels. Lucien Lachance raises a martini glass at him with a knowing smile from the lobby bar, and Hok rolls his eyes. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“Fancy seeing you here,” he calls out, cloying. He tosses his hair over one shoulder, pops his hip out, bats his lashes, the whole works. “I didn’t know men like you frequented places like this,” Hok rests hand on his hip ‘casually’. Lachance definitely seems amused by the show. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“When there’s something worth a man like mine’s attention, I can be persuaded to most locations," Lachance replies in a heavy french accent that throws Hok briefly for a loop. Lachance looks Hok up and down with an intense, burning gaze, “Are you free for the evening, I wonder? Hungry?” </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“For a gentleman like you? Always,” Hok replies charmingly, not specifying. The imperial takes out his wallet without breaking his gaze, leaving a rolled up bill on the bar counter and setting down his half finished martini. Hok smiles obligingly and accepts Lachance’s arm, taking the opportunity to give the nosy peanut gallery a wink before sauntering off into the paris night at his side. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“I’ll ask this time, where are you taking me?” Hok tosses his hair again, walking with a sway to his gait that is obviously exaggerated. Onlookers pass them by with a smirk and a roll of the eyes. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“I rented the penthouse and presidential suites at Hôtel de Crillon. Your suitcase and afternoon train tickets to Amsterdam are waiting in the penthouse. Service is fully included.” </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“Last time your lackeys took my things,” Hok points at him with an excusatory finger, “They forgot my toothbrush.” </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Lucien raises his eyebrows and fixes Hok with a surprised smile. “Have you replaced it?” </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“Wouldn’t you like to find out,” Hok purrs, and almost immediately dissolves into laughter. “Divines, yes I have, I can buy myself a toothbrush." He laughs to himself, his breath catching in his thraot when he glances up to see Lucien watching him still with bright, amused eyes. “Ocheeva kept telling me you were too busy for us lowly exterminators, and yet here you are,” he mentions, buoyed by false bravado and the way Lucien's arm has snaked around his waist. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Lucien acknowledges that with a nod and a charming smile, “I admit the others of our sanctuary do not hear from me, unless through Vicente or Ocheeva, yes. You are a special case, in that regard.” </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“What makes me special?” Hok asks, daringly. The silence that follows a beat too long after makes him wish he could adhere his mouth closed with duct tape, or barbed wire. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>The heel of Lucien’s polished shoe and Hok’s lavish boots click against the pavement nearly twelve beats before Lucien replies. “What do you think my reason is?” Lachance asks, voice dark and dangerously inquisitive. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Hok swallows and looks resolutely forward, tightening his grip on Lachance’s shoulder. “I don’t have the combat experience or training as the others. I’ve asked around, I’m definitely the greenest member in a long, long while. Maybe you’re just trying to keep me from killing myself on one of these jobs.” He’s meant to say it with a lighter tone, but the words come out bitter and serious, a little too close to home, a little too vulnerable. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>They walk for twenty-six clicks before Lucien speaks again. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“You’re getting your contracts from Ocheeva now, yes?” Hok nods, and Lucien squeezes his hip back. “If you truly believe I doubt your abilities in this way, I will give Ocheeva a contract to distribute perfectly suited to your skillset. You will have the opportunity to prove me wrong, then.” </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“What ‘skillset’ would that be,” Hok tries to joke, cynically, “Haggling with drug dealers anonymously for decent deals? Excessive application of bronzor?” </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Lachance stops them very abruptly and strengthens his grip on Hok’s waist nearly too tight. “Do you think Telanendril would have thought to impersonate a prostitute?” He asks fiercly, “A religious missionary? Do you think Antoinetta would have been able to befriend and seduce those vile, pathetic, vain men? Do you think Gogron would have known how to use societal expectations as a cloak? Do you think Teinaava could have held a natural conversation with Faelian long enough to get the needle in his arm? To make it look natural?” </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Hok isn’t sure what to say. He stares back at Lucien, who sighs and soothes his grip on Hok with a surprisingly soft touch. “We’re here,” He rumbles in that dark tone, and Hok looks behind him in surprise. A bellboy watches them with carefully hidden anxiety. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“Here is your room key,” Lachance hands him a blue card emblazoned with the number 1400 in flowy, golden cursive. Hok takes it silently. “My room is 1301, the floor below yours.” Lachance fixes him with one last, unreadable stare, before detaching himself from Hok’s arm and confidently walking through the sliding glass doors. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Hok does not sleep that night. He stares at the ornate ceiling above him and thinks of strong hands with golden rings, and the unspoken invitation waiting a floor below him. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>--</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Summitmist Manor is the most beautiful tableau Lucien has ever witnessed. It’s halls are silent, walking their length is as if walking through a still dream. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Lucien goes about the duty of removing the surveillance equipment with quiet feet and an imperceptible presence, unwilling to disturb the silent performance. He’d been watching the footage from a secure location as the night’s events played out, and the desire to experience the art himself had nearly driven him to impatience. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>The obfuscation of the crime scene should be a job of mere moments, a job he had the connections to have done remotely on the rare occasions his sanctuary did not have the chance to clean up after themselves, but Lachance takes his time in each room, marvelling at the artistry of each silent scene. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>The first of the dead, Dovesi Dran, is found collapsed on the floor of the guest bedroom. Her hair is splayed beautifully around her head, her manicured nails curled gently into her palms. Glassy eyes reflect the low light of the chandelier, her arms bent at unnatural angles, ankle broken from her fall. The lipstick she was applying is smudged across her face and scattered from her hand to roll across the floor, and her head rests in the pillow of blood trickling from the slice in her throat. The mirror is sprayed with blood, and the bloody straight razor is placed tauntingly on the vanity next to a gilded comb. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Lucien had been watching, but even a blind man could see what happened. He cut her throat as he combed her hair, the budding flower encouraged to bloom just to be torn viciously from the earth. She was no more than sixteen. The tragedy of it is exquisite. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>In the dining room, the nord was next to crumble, and crumble he had indeed. He’d sobbed, unable to reconcile the death of the innocent child, and the esteemed guests of nobility had fled his vulnerability like rats scurrying under the floorboards. The strong nord, the barbarian they had been seeing, they had refused to come to his aid and confront his reality. The wine that had been his ever loyal companion was in fact, his final betrayal. Cyanide. The shattered glass at the corpe’s feet was a mirror to their own prejudice. Hauntingly striking. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Matilde Petit. Her murder had been drawn out so sweetly, lured into the dark and taken as if by Sithis himself. The executioner had the longest with her body before discovery. Sequestered in the basement, he’d set the scene while the guests paced their little rooms just above his head. It was only when the thudding stopped did they realize what they’d been listening to, what they were complicit in. Hanging does not leave a pretty body, but a powerful image indeed. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Primo Antonius, the disinterested son of a corrupt billionaire, had beaten the ex-military officer Neville to death with his own cane. That is the scene that Lucien finds in the great hall, and though it is the first he saw opening the doors to the Manor, the emotion and raw desperation only speaks to him now, having seen each tableau on his journey through their final resting place. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>He’d beaten the retired veteran to death with his own cane, and as he had stared at the blood on his hands, he had not been able to reconcile his unjust victory. Neville had been sabotaged. He’d had a leg up, as he had in all his life and had refused to acknowledge. The gun Lucien’s talented executioner had removed from Neville’s possession in the very first act made it’s final, foreshadowed appearance against Antonius’s temple. He could not ignore the truth when it stared him in the face. Or shot him in the face. Both were equally satisfying. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>His phone vibrates minutely. Lachance slides it from his pocket and glances at the number flashing across his screen, saved to the alias, “Hawk.” He swipes open to the last conversation he’d had open with his murderer. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>(21:36) You:<br/>
Don’t clean up yourself when you’re finished tonight, I would like to see the result for myself. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>(21:40) Hawk:<br/>
:thumb emoji: </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>(02:51) Hawk:<br/>
just finished come by whenever </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>NEW! (04:47) Hawk:<br/>
like what you see? you’ve been inside forever</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Hok closes his phone and takes a seat on the mossy wall opposite the grand doors of Summitmist Manor, taking another bite of his breakfast burrito. He idly rolls his skateboard back and forth with the toe of his shoe, watching the closed blinds for signs of movement. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>After a minute or two of waiting, the front door opens a crack. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Lucien is dressed down somewhat, not wearing a suit coat for the first time Hok’s seen him. The black leather jacket and black turtleneck look no less classy, on a man like Lucien Lachance. As always, he is violently underdressed. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Lachance doesn’t close the door behind himself or acknowledge Hok’s watchful eye, the can of accelerant he is pouring out onto the doorstep speaks for itself. From a safe step back, Lucien lights a match and flicks it expertly onto the flame, which plumes five feet in the air on first ignition and quickly burns up the trail past the heavy oaken doors. Lucien kicks them loose and breaks the key off in the lock with the edge of the accelerant can. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>He turns to face Hok, finally. Hok beams. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“So?” Hok calls out to him as he approaches, “How did I do?” </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Lucien nods and the corners of his lips twitch into a smile. “I composed a tirade on the senselessness of death turned to art through the artist, and it’s production as such by a human hand, but it is 3 in the morning and my poetry has gone from me.” </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“Is it gone enough that you’ll eat a burrito from mcdonalds?” Hok wagers, shaking it enticingly at the imperial. He’s pleased, secretly, the tiny part of his brain that had been yelling at him “he hates it he hates it he hates it” finally silenced. His attempt at being an annoyance fails, and the lines of Lucien’s face soften with fondness. Hok feels inexplicably adored, kicking his feet on a garden wall and grinning with pride. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“Not quite, no,” Lucien smiles, “Did you find this contract enjoyable?”</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Hok laughs, “You say that like you don’t know. Yes, yes it was amazing. I drank wine and schmoozed and watched a group of people who each thought themselves the sole survivor and protagonist of the evening die in satisfying ways.” Hok bats his eyelashes and sighs excessively dreamily, “And then I got a burrito while my boss did the cleaning up. Truly an upgrade from retail.” </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Lucien takes a step forward until the lip of the skateboard touches his shin, holding his hands behind his back gently and looming over Hok with a smirk. “And are your fears of your believed incompetence sated?” </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Hok looks down at his feet and huffs, before looking back up at Lachance. “Lot of people to kill just to reassure myself, boss. Yeah, no. I’m good. I kicked ass at this.” </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Lucien smiles before glancing down at the skateboard as well. “Some tourists left it unattended on a bench at Fort Sutch,” Hok supplies, “My last contract. Haven’t had a board since Liverpool, my old roommate stole it when he moved out and I couldn’t afford a new one. Mine was a cheap ass penny board too, this one’s nice.” </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“I would have bought you one.” Lucien says. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“I know,” Hok replies, and the gravity of that gets his heart skipping beats. “I hadn’t thought of it, really. You ever skated?” </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Lucien shakes his head, and his eyes follow the movement as Hok lifts the board with a toe and pushes it to roll gently to the left. “Give it a try, boss. I bet you’re a natural.” </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>He obliges the command without comment, a blank look on his intense face as he approaches the unfamiliar object. Hok is about to give some advice, maybe a warning to keep his balance, but with the same natural dexterity and confidence he moves in everything else, Lucien steps onto the skateboard. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Almost instantly the longboard shoots out from beneath his feet like a rocket and Lachance with his long, graceful legs goes ass over ears in an instant. Hok springs to his feet on instinct to stop the board with his foot and doubles over onto his knees with laughter, cackling loud enough to scare away the birds. “That-” he tries to say but there’s not enough air in his lungs and he wheezes violently, pushing himself up to his knees and stumbling a bit. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>In an instant the world rotates 180 degrees and he’s flat on his back on the cobblestone, Lucien looming over him on his hands and knees, red in the face, his perfectly slicked ponytail endearingly disheveled. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Hok breathes out the last of his giggles, smiling loosely. “Have I regained my dignity, somewhat?” Lachance asks with a grin, and his supernaturally deep voice curls up inside Hok’s chest, beating with the erratic rhythm of his heart. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“I think we just might be passed that, yknow?” Hok quirks a teasing brow, “Seeing as I’ve murdered like, a dozen or more people for you. Just maybe.” </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“For the Black Hand,” Lucien corrects him, innocently. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Hok doesn’t blink, “Yeah, them too.” </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Lucien smiles at him, and Hok would be content to look at him forever like this, his fingers digging gently into Lucien’s thighs, wisps of flyaway black hairs tickling his face, those dark eyes, on him and only him. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>In the distance, the windows of the burning house shatter from the heat of the fire as it consumes the very foundations the manor stood upon. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“Do you know what a Silencer is?” Lucien asks in a soft voice, quiet enough that Hok can only just hear it. He shakes his head, quiet, listening. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“I don’t need to tell you of the Black Hand, and what it symbolises to us. Four Speakers and one Listener. Four fingers and a thumb, as it were. What is not known among our family members is that the Black Hand employs a few... additional numbers. As every hand has fingers, does not every finger have a nail? A claw? A talon? Every finger of the hand, every Speaker, has such a nail.” Lucien’s finger trails along the line of his chin, drawing a line with the pad of his thumb that burns in the cool night air from his touch. “These are the Silencers. Each Speaker employs his or her own private assassin, to extend their reach and strike forth as necessary.” </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“I don’t think I can do anything as an assassin you couldn’t do yourself,” Hok feels it necessary to point out, the weight of some emotion he can’t identify making it hard to breathe. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“Not yet,” Lucien tells him, softly, “No, not yet. A Silencer takes contracts only from his Speaker, reports to his Speaker above all else, works closely with his Speaker. Finances, housing, life, death, the Speaker is expected to provide. I would not cage you yet, when you have so much to learn still.” </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Hok blinks, taking everything in. “That… sounds like marriage.” </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“Yes,” Lucien says. Behind them, the supports on the first floor give out, and the Manor collapses in on itself with a deafening crash and a hot gust of wind blowing back the greenery. Lucien does not look away from Hok, his thumb worrying against a spot on his neck. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Hok breathes, feeling Lucien rise and fall with the rise and fall of his chest. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“But not yet,” Hok parrots, and Lucien shakes his head minutely. Hok nods, slowly, and smiles kinda sheepishly. “Yeah, okay. Sure.” There’s nothing to agree to yet, but he does anyway. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Lucien sits back on his haunches, and extends a hand to help Hok to his feet. Hok doesn’t need the help, but he lets Lucien pull him off the ground and into his chest, to tuck the executioner under his chin for a moment as he reaches into his jacket pocket. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“One last thing,” He murmurs, and presses something into Hok’s hand that hasn’t slipped under the leather jacket, wrapping his fingers around it. Hok looks down at the emblem of a black stallion on the black rectangle, a key jingling softly at the end of the chain. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“Oh fuck you,” Hok breathes, and he can feel Lucien’s smug smirk looking down on him. “A gift, waiting outside the Sanctuary for you. I call her Shadowmere. She’s served me well.” </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“You don’t have to,” Hok tells him, looking up at the dangerous, psychopathic, besotten imperial. “You don’t have to impress me. You’ve got me. I’m in.” </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Lucien chuckles, and the deep reverberations rumble through Hok’s chest. “Can’t you fault a fool for trying? Take her. As a token of my trust and love.” </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Hok smiles, laughing at the ridiculousness of it all. “Okay,” he agrees. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“Okay.”</i>
  </i>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>this is mostly unedited and unpolished. but then again, what do i post that is?</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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